In Waking Dreams
by Yxonomei
Summary: (Slash, AP, HP) Achilles and Paris discover that no immutable line separates the realm of dreams from reality. Hector and Paris cannot move beyond a wrong perpetrated in love.


**Fandom:** Troy/Illiad

**Title:** In Waking Dreams

**Author:** Yxonomei

**Beta:** Beth (a transcendent genius)

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't sue.

**Archive:** Livejournal, yahoogroups, aff.net

**Warnings:** _This Chapter_ -- Slash, violence, implied non-con., incest, dark themes, angst (this is fairly light for me)

**Pairings:** _This Chapter (in order of mention) _-- Achilles/Paris, Achilles/Patroclus (implied), Hector/Paris

**Rating:** ff.net version R

**Summary:** Achilles and Paris discover that no immutable line separates the realm of dreams from reality. Hector and Paris cannot move beyond a wrong perpetrated in love.

**Chapter:** 1

**Notes:** This fic. is based more on Greek Mythology and Homer's Illiad (the Greek Homer, not the Simpsons), and only very loosely touches upon the travesty that was Troy the movie. (Briseis was a war-widow captured from Lyrnessos by Achilles, and the war lasted 10 years!)

::In Waking Dreams::

"And so the mighty warrior, favored of the Gods themselves, sulks because his lusts have been denied a pretty slave girl[1]," a soft voice taunts beyond the dim light thrown by the unattended brazier. In an economical flex of muscle Achilles unsheathes his sword and brings it to press forcefully upon the unguarded throat of the intruder while his unarmed hand grabs a fistful of silken hair. With mocking tenderness he forces the intruder's head back as if in preparation for a kiss. The orange-tinged twilight reveals features of unearthly symmetry set in a face no stranger to the Apollo's burning grace. Two dark eyes outlined by sooty lashes and a touch of kohl meet his boldly. For a moment the man debates the gender of this preternaturally perfect creature, and then decides the huskiness of voice denotes the sex as male.

And this man is not a miffed Patroclus[2] come back to goad Achilles into the battlefield with his agile tongue and nubile body. The face and litheness of build would place the stranger in the same age range, perhaps some years the junior, but, again, the face could not belong to a mortal untouched by the Gods—if the other is mortal at all. 

"It is rude to enter a man's private demesne without prior invitation, and far worse to hurl insults, friend," the warrior whispers, allowing the edge of the sword to draw forth blood from the gracefully arched throat. A small shudder runs the course of the intruder's slighter form.

"I am no friend."

"Then I should take your head." He jerks the other's head back to rest upon his shoulder and then lowers the blade, noting with satisfaction that no swells of feminine flesh hinder the progress, until it rests at groin level. "Or something else. But, before I do so, would you be so kind as to give a name? Dying unremembered is a horrible fate."

"Perhaps I am deserving of that fate. It would be far kinder on my name, I would think." The dark lashes lower and a wry smile curves the youth's perfect lips.

"You have a certain morbid bravery, I'll give you that."

"Oh no, nothing brave lives in my breast. I am an impetuous coward, cursed with softness and all other of womenfolk's qualities."

"Truly?" Achilles presses the edge of his bronze sword against the tender apex of the man's legs. "I could further assist you with the transformation." The intruder twists away from the blade and presses his slim frame against the Grecian, who finds the firm pressure of a young body against his a bit of a distraction.

"Paris Alexander[3]," the man murmurs, wiggling back against him. "Son of Priamus of Illium[4]."

A harsh bark of laughter leaves Achilles' throat before he can check it. Truly unbelievable! He almost glances around to see if one of his men has dared, in a truly monumental act of stupidity, to play a trick on him. But, no, there is only the two of them alone in his tent. This is in itself most perplexing and speaks ill of the alertness of his Myrmidons. None should have been able to enter the camp without identifying himself first and then requesting an audience with Achilles, if the matter concerns him. The laxness will have to be dealt with quickly, but for now he has the second youngest son of Priam[5] at sword point, or so it seems.

And this youth, with all the tender and symmetrical beauty of Aphrodite's Chosen, must truly be the prince reviled among Achilles' fellow Grecians. No doubt, since the royal house produced such beauties as Priam's brother Ganymede, the Goddess did not have to labor hard or long to give the youth his current countenance. Truly the masculine counterpart to Helen's own allure.

"The Whore's newest husband, son of the man who paid Heracles for his life with his sister's body and her golden veil[6], progenitor of the greatest war the world has ever seen… well met, cousin."

"Say whatever you want of me, but eschew slandering those I love, _cousin_."

"All this prattle annoys me." Lowering his sword, Achilles takes a firmer grasp upon the young prince's hair and throws him to the ground. The youth issues a noise of pained surprise upon impact and makes no move to regain his feet or sit up. Calmly the warrior takes a seat upon a hide chair and stretches out his long legs. He sets the sword across his knees and regards the obstinately downed form with callous amusement. He knows that no debilitating injuries can result from such a mild level of violence. The young prince, not so much a young man as a boy, merely seeks a sympathy from him that died a decade past.

"Tell me what you seek here."

"And you'll spare me or some such thing?" the prince inquires with an edge of bitterness that irks the great warrior. The boy should be grateful that his head and genitals remain attached. Besides, it is only the natural sequence of events for one such as Achilles to inquire upon the sudden appearance of a child of his enemy in his tent. Surely this is not a ploy to woo him away from his fellow Grecians; the Trojans should be grateful his own concerns, phrased so mockingly by this stripling, keep him from slaughtering all their sons and brothers.

"No, I promise nothing. I want to know."

"Well, I do not know."

"That does not satisfy me."

"_I _do not seek to satisfy _you_."

Achilles shakes his head in indulgent amusement and grins coldly. "I would seek to if I were you, but let's move on to another question: how did you come here unmolested?" Achilles places his hand on the sword's hilt as the prince raises his head and levers his torso up from the ground. In a liquid choreography of burnished skin and sleek muscles Paris moves to his knees and turns guarded eyes upon the Grecian.

"I do not know that either." A look of confusion breaks across his features and then drowns in blankness.

"A hypothesis concerning the relationship between beauty and intelligence may be argued here," Achilles mocks.

"Then you must be only slightly more intelligent than myself," is the boy's condescending reply. He yelps and jerks away as the tip of the warrior's sword grazes his cheek and neatly shears off a dark curl. Achilles returns the blade to its position across his knees. The youth holds a trembling hand to his marred cheek and stares balefully into his enemy's pitiless eyes.

"That is a warning, boy. My patience with your games runs short. I have been too long from the pandemonium of war and feel its sweet cravings stir my blood. You are an enemy—though weak and pitiful—and my blade is hungry."

"Then why don't you return to the field, slayer of men? It is the girl; it is your pride. I have no pride to defend or assuage and so I am not as constrained." A light enters the boy's dark eyes and he tilts his head to the side, measuring the warrior against some unknown ideal. Achilles quirks a brow sardonically and contemplates driving his sword between the boy's ribs and watching his death throes. It truly has been too long since he last spilled an enemy's blood. He can almost taste the metallic wine pulsing beneath the youth's fragile skin, smell it thick and hot in the air. The little he has already spilled is not enough, not nearly.

"I do not know how I came here or the purpose, but perhaps I will create one," Paris murmurs softly with an enigmatic smile. Shaken from his crimson visions, Achilles watches with growing heat as the youth's elegant fingers undo the expensive girdle about his waist. The tunic, stitched only at the shoulders, falls open and reveals the smooth planes of the prince's flanks.

"You have many passions, do you not, my bloody lord?" The dim light catches a deep flush upon Paris' cheeks as he strips the fine cloth from his supple body. "I, too, have them. Perhaps you should have given me the epithet of 'whore'.

"I am no bearer of arms, but I am not completely helpless. I simply have more imagination when it comes to the use of one's body as a weapon." With every purred word and sinuous movement of the young prince, Achilles finds himself hardening, blood rushing down in heavy, tingling surges. When Paris crawls to his feet, spine a subtle bow of elegance and mouth moist with a recent flick of a pink tongue, the fearsome warrior takes no action to rebuff him. The nude prince leans over Achilles sword and places a single kiss upon the gleaming blade. The Grecian's heart leaps against his ribs and settles in a steady beat between his thighs.

Neither a coward on the field of battle nor in the arena of Eros, Achilles finds himself unable and unwilling to deflect this enigmatic youth's purpose. The power of deathless Love seems to breathe from the soft mouth and peer out of the smoldering eyes. The lightest brush of fingertips upon his knees manumits a thousand flames within his very blood. Paris did not lie when he intimated the capabilities of his slender form. Achilles can see the destruction of kingdoms and dynasties within the sun-blessed skin of the prince. Rapturous death fills the air and cleaves itself to the very core of the warrior's being.

With sliding, liquid grace the prince replaces the weight of the sword. Thighs damp with heat and mild exertion straddle his and press against him fiercely. A warm hand insinuates itself beneath the hem of his tunic and grasps his rigid length while the other tangles in his hair. Paris licks at his lips like a pup begging its bitch and plays with the weeping head of his cock. Then the prince kisses him and the warrior is galvanized into action, as if the soft press of lips holds the antidote to the lust drenched paralysis. He grabs the bird-delicate wrists and forces the hands away from his body.

"This is a most dangerous game, young cousin." The boy struggles weakly for a few moments, tender body squirming in a most pleasing manner against Achilles. Straining against the man's hold, Paris leans in and presses open-mouthed kisses upon the man's face.

"But I play it so well."

"Then let us commence."

**[Edited for R rating. For NC17 version there is a link at the bottom]**

"Imagine! The mighty Achilles caught unawares!" The golden haired warrior blinks blearily up at his own bronze sword pointed at his face. He follows the blade's line to a firmly muscled arm and then to the smugly grinning face of his own Patroclus. The younger man squats by his beloved friend and sets the weapon aside.

"I was sleeping?" The older man finds himself sprawled upon his pallet of furs, alone. No Trojan prince, asleep or dead—the sensation of a crushed windpipe beneath his hand remains vivid in his mind—lies with him. He distinctly remembers being in the hide chair, though. Or was that, too, a fiction?

"If not then I would love to find out who left this mess," the Myrmidon[8] quips with a pointed look at the older man's exposed genitals. Achilles follows his lover's eyes and finds the dried evidence of his seed upon flaccid penis and thighs. "Must have been some dream, my lord."

"Enough, Patroclus. I am in no mood for your levity." The young warrior shrugs and moves away to retrieve a cloth for his leader to use.

"You were never this…tense when fighting. You should think about returning," Patroclus says, tossing Achilles a wetted rag. The older man sits up and meticulously cleans up the dried fluid.

"I have vowed not to return until that swine of a king returns my property. Here I shall stay until he comes crawling into my tent upon his old knees."

"The Grecians are dispirited, my lord. They need your fire."

"They have fire enough in Ajax and the others. No, I remain firm, and, if you have nothing more important to babble about, leave." The young man ducks the thrown rag and stalks to the tent's entrance.

"You came here to fight, beloved friend. Sitting around here with your injured pride seems rather contrary to your purpose."

"Leave." With a disgusted shake of his shaggy blonde head, Patroclus leaves the annoyed Achilles to his own thoughts and confusions.

Alone, the golden warrior searches for any sign that more than a dream occurred last night. Nothing. A dream.

The sensation of his own climax and death burning through his arteries, Paris opens his eyes to find the cool stone ceiling of his own chambers overhead and the weak glow of false dawn lighting the sky. A choked sob bursts from his mouth and he shudders weakly. He still burns; his very blood aches with the power of his—dreamt?—encounter. Carefully he touches his throat and neck and finds both without any evidence of inflicted violence. The great Grecian warrior has not marked him with his sword.

He groans and sits up. Why on the fertile soil of his forefathers would he dream of his people's enemy? An enemy he can now picture in vivid, glorious detail when all he knew before was the golden armor flecked with his countrymen's blood. Utterly ridiculous, truly!

"Sweet dreams, brother-mine?" Cocking his head, a cold smile upon his lips, the young prince turns to the darkness near the entrance to his bedchamber. In the light seeping unobtrusively into the room he can just make out the outline of his oldest brother.

"Very sweet and very horrible."

"That is contradictory." Hector approaches the bed with measured steps. Some unknown annoyance tightens his body into a humming line of imminent outburst.

"But true." The warrior makes a harsh sound that is neither a laugh nor a growl, but something of both.

"Where is your wife?" Hector inquires with false lightness as he takes a seat upon his brother's bed.

"You know well where she is."

"Moved on to braver pastures. I am sure Deiphobus[9] will regret her choice soon enough." A warning growl crawls out of the younger prince's throat at the mention of their brother's name. Hector laughs and presses a tender hand upon his brother's left cheek. Gently he presses the pad of his thumb against the delicate flesh beneath Paris' eye.

"Do you love me, brother-mine?"

"I should hate you," the boy whispers, nuzzling into the hand. "I cannot. I love you to my destruction."

"Shouldn't I say that?"

Paris lets his mouth take on a genuine smile and turns to kiss his older brother lightly upon his bearded chin. Surreptitiously he breathes in the trace odor of war and death that never seems to dissipate from Hector, as if it now resides deeply in his flesh, never to leave. Scent did not accompany the dream state, but he cannot help wondering if Achilles would smell the same.

"If you want." His brother's hand slips around to cradle the back of his skull. Paris yields to the firm lips that come to rest against his. The ache in his blood turns into a stabbing agony that has him pressing harder against his brother.

"Why are you here?" Hector whispers into his mouth before pulling away. The boy protests, but all his attempts to resume are expertly deflected. He settles back down with a  pout as he reins the furious throb of his desires.

"I live here."

"Not here, Troy. Here, your chambers." Paris cannot recall the mocking laugh that escapes his mouth.

"Because they are mine. Where else would I be? The dog kennels? The stable?"

"You might have been better off there," Hector answers coldly. "You were supposed to wait for me in my rooms."

"Your wife would not approve, not that her approval truly matters to me. I thought I was to be your dark little secret, brother. The one stain upon your vaunted honor. Has the fair Andromache's taste shifted to more adventurous endeavors in bed?" Paris is not surprised when his brother backhands him. Gingerly he probes his throbbing lips with his tongue and finds the lower oozing blood. He laps at it absently and leans towards Hector's warmth, blood calling to blood. 

"You never listen, do you, Paris? I told you that Andromache is performing a purifying ritual for the next six days." Paris frowns and thinks back. Vaguely he recalls Hector pulling him aside to tell him something in darkly commanding tones. He had been distracted by the passage of a rather comely serving girl.

"Ah."

"And I told you—"

"Your rooms, yes." Carefully he curls his arms about his brother's strong neck and shifts onto his lap. "I wish I had not been distracted." He rocks his hips against the rising evidence of Hector's desire and smiles in the dark.

_'I am no bearer of arms, but I am not completely helpless. I simply have more imagination when it comes to the use of one's body as a weapon.'_

His dream-spoken words flow through his mind and his smile turns grim.

"Hector, brother," he breathes and fastens his lips to his brother's. Strong hands grip his thighs and pull him closer.

&&&&&&&&

Now for those lovely notes to help everyone who might be confused as to characters and events named, alluded to, or mentioned in some other haphazard manner.

And also because I am gripped by a strange compulsion to post this at ff.net in a vain attempt to stem the tide of Mary Sues and Mary Sues purported to be OCs (but aren't and the rest of us know this!). {This author denies all accusations of being a bitter woman disillusioned with the archive she started her fanfiction career with}

[1] Briseis, in Greek Mythology, was (according to some sources) a widow from Lyrnessos and was abducted from there when Achilles and the Greeks attacked it, killing her husband, Mines, and her brother. Agamemnon seized her in recompense for the slave, Chryseis, he had to forfeit in order to appease Apollo for the girl's father was one of His priests. Because of this Achilles left the field until such a time as Agamemnon returned her (which he doesn't appear to have).

[2] Patroclus, according to Greek mythology, was the _lover_ of Achilles and not, as in the movie, his cousin. However, I have decided to make him younger than Achilles as in the movie and not, as is stressed in Homer's work, older. Furthermore, the use of "cousin" in this piece denotes a spiritual relationship (used sarcastically between Achilles and Paris), and not genealogical.

[3] Paris, Alexander and Alexandros all refer to the same prince of Troy. I used Paris Alexander here as a sort of compromise.

[4] Priamus: variant of Priam, used in this context to denote paternal lineage. Illium: ancient name for Troy (hence the Illiad).

[5] Polydorus is the youngest son of Priam and his second wife and queen of Troy, Hecuba/Hekabe, and not Paris (I'm not quite certain his birth order in relation to the rest, but I felt it safest to put him as second youngest). The boy was sent to the court of Polymestor, the Thracian king, with a good deal of Trojan treasure to ensure his safety during the war. When Troy lost the Thracian threw the boy from his walls and claimed the treasure for his own. Hecuba, eventually escaping from her Greek captors, avenged her son and slew Polymestor.

[6] Priam, originally named Podarge, prevented Heracles (Hercules) from killing him by giving, according to some sources, Zeus' son his sister, Hesione, and a golden veil that she embroidered. He changed his name to Priam/us/os (meaning "ransomed") after this event. In a way, his willingness to accept Helen relates back to the loss of his sister to the Greeks. Fair is fair and all that.

[7] Priam is credited with fathering a total of fifty children to various women (slave-women most prominently) and wives. Of the fifty, the queen of Troy, Hecuba, gave birth to twenty. She also gave birth to two children claimed to be sired by Apollo: Troilus and Polyxena.

[8] Patroclus in mythology does fight, but not all the time. His role seems to have been primarily in the domestic sphere: cooking, cleaning, tending to Achilles' needs.

[9] After Paris' death by Heracles' arrow, Helen is given to Deiphobus for a wife. I have simply decided that she had more of choice in the matter and began a relationship pre-Paris' death. (Read this as precision literary/historical license)

Two good, quick and easy to access sites of Greek characters and other aspects of Greek Mythology:

http :www . pantheon. org/areas / folklore /greekheroic /articles. html

http :en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ MainPage

**For NC17 version of the story **(Huzzah for an extra two pages of graphic sex)**:**

http :www . livejournal. com/ users/ syfanfiction/ 5416 .html# cutid1

(Spaces added to prevent ff.net from stripping the link. Just delete them for the proper URL)


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